I was sitting at my desk and failing to complete an essay while listening to my flatmate getting fucked.

Whoever made these shoddy student digs obviously hadn't spent much money on them. They were bland and ugly, they froze in the winter, and their walls were very, very thin. When Ash to my left watched TV on her laptop, I could make out the dialogue. When Rose down the hall played her music, I could hear every note of her 80's goth discography. And when Rowan, who occupied the room to my right, decided to call her causal boyfriend, a fuckbuddy by any other name...

"Harder, Jacob! Harder! Unf!"

The sound of her bedframe creaking. The knocking of its head against the wall. Even the steady slap of skin on skin. Here I was trying to write an essay on microplastics, fucking microplastics, and I was having to hear that. Ash was on a date and Rose at a gig, so I'd hoped I'd get some quiet time to work today, but nope. Thanks, Rowan. How was I supposed to concentrate on the viability of soil ecosystems with that racket going on next door?

You might suggest knocking and yelling, but Rose had already tried that and they'd gotten even louder in response. That ended with her playing her music even louder to drown them out, which had made things even worse. Ash had gone in for snarky and biting comments, but Rowan tended to take them badly. And I'd mentioned it to Jacob once, man to man, but he'd been so smug and responded with such a shit-eating grin that I'd wanted to punch him. And they'd gotten even louder the next time.

I suppose I could have left the flat for an hour, or put on music of my own (on headphones, of course. I'm not Rose). But there was a reason I didn't, even if I hated to admit it.

Hearing Rowan getting fucked was hot.

I loved hearing it, hated hearing it, couldn't stop listening to it. It drove me crazy to know my pretty, spunky, redheaded flatmate was getting dicked down mere feet away from me, even as I seethed because it was nothing to do with me. I knew it was pervy of me, but if she was going to broadcast her sex life to the world, why shouldn't the world listen in?

I just wished it was me. I wondered if it could have been me, had I been suaver when we'd met, if I'd said the right things. I was sure I could do a better job of it than her current lover. I'd heard enough cussing through the walls, seen Rowan in enough short and snappy moods, to know that.

I imagined Rowan's body, all pale and lithe and athletic, wrapped around my own. Her short and curly ginger hair, stuck to her forehead with sweat. I put faces to the moans I heard.

Rowan who would lounge in the kitchen after a shower with her gorgeous legs on the table, her hair wet and smelling of flowers, cradling a cup of tea.

Rowan who used to come back from the gym with her sports bra visible beneath a damp and transparent shirt after having run back as a cooldown, covered in sweat in a way that activated some primal caveman urge inside of me.

Rowan who now jogged the twelve storeys of our student tower because the gym was too expensive, treating passers-by to those sleek and muscular legs, that firm arse in running shorts, those perky tits that jiggled as she mounted the stairs.

Rowan, Rowan, Rowan. I had her on the brain. I had all of them on the brain, really, but she was the worst. Fucking so loudly, so close by. When she came, the noise would be burned into my brain and fuel my fantasies for weeks. Not that she came that often, with her careless and selfish lover. But when I imagined her fucking me, she always got her O.

Was that presumptuous of me? Maybe. But I doubted it. Sure, I wasn't some master of sex with a cock the size of a bus, but I'd had relationships before and had done well in the bedroom. My first time had been in my last year of school. We were both eighteen, but she'd taught me more than any teacher ever had. I'd had a second girlfriend in my gap year, and while it had ended badly, it hadn't been the sex that made us break up. In fact, she'd bragged enough that some of her friends got interested after we split.

But I wasn't the sort of charming that got girls lining up to take a chance. I wasn't a player, and I wasn't smooth enough to pick up chicks in bars. I was confident in my ability to rock a girl's world in bed, but that doesn't count for much if you can't get them into bed in the first place. I'd worked hard to be more than just the shy, nerdy guy I used to be, but I guess some things still lingered.

Which is why I was single, despite living in a flat with three beautiful and sexually active girls.

"Faster! Harder! I said harder, don't just go quick! Come on, thrust! Are you even listening?"

The noises were getting louder, now. The creaking and thumping came quicker, even as the pace got irregular and erratic. Rhythm was not this guy's strong point. They had been better when they started, from what I could hear, but Rowan's guy seemed to have gotten complacent. More often than not, their sessions ended with Rowan unfulfilled.

And this seemed to be one of those times. The guy was speeding up and getting sloppy, but there were none of the telltale whimpers that heralded his partner's orgasm. Rowan was sounding increasingly frustrated and annoyed, the creaking got louder...

"Uuunnh!"

"Noooo!"

A groan of satisfaction, a shriek of despair. Release for me, but not for thee. Rowan's dude - it seemed wrong to call him a man - had failed her yet again. I felt sorry for my flatmate, even as I felt a stab of vindictive spite towards her partner: Yeah, he was with her and I wasn't, but he wasn't exactly doing a good job.

As I thought this, my denied flatmate rose the roof.

"Why the fuck did you cum?" The sound of rustling clothes and footsteps had replaced the shagging, as a backing track to their argument.

"Because we were fucking, babe. It's kind of the point." Her fuckbuddy sounded smug, as always. After all, he'd gotten his pleasure. Who cared about anyone else?

"How could you? How could you? I was getting close!"

"Hey, you're the one who said to go faster." God, he made my blood boil.

"Don't you even care?"

"Hey, sometimes girls don't cum. It's natural."

"Bastard!"

I heard the door open, and something clattered as it slammed against the wall. If I were to guess, I'd say that Rowan had thrown something in her anger. There were footsteps in the hallway, and the sound of another door opening. Then it closed, and there was a scream. A scream of sheer, unsatisfied fury. The scream of a woman let down.

I got up. I wasn't sure what I was planning to say to Rowan - comfort her? Tell her to pipe down? Or maybe...

I can't say. All I can say is that when I heard that primal scream, some deep-seated instinct took over. And I walked into the hallway.

Rowan was there, lovely in her rage. She'd flung her clothes on in a hurry to follow her lover into the hall and now she stood, disheveled and seething, staring at the door he had just left by. She wore a plain shirt with no bra underneath it and a pair of faded blue jeans. Her belt was unbuckled and the jeans were sliding down her hips, showing a pair of red knickers that hid her unsatisfied cunt. She was barefoot.

She turned to me and her hair was a mess, her face a mask of hate. With hunched shoulders and balled fists, she looked like she was going to start a brawl, and she was gorgeous.

"Rowan," I said calmly.

I could see the wheels turning inside her mind as different emotions flitted across her face. Anger at me for intruding into her drama, or maybe just hate for the male sex in general. Embarrassment at causing a scene. And finally...

"You're hard," she said huskily. I looked down, and sure enough, the outline of my cock was visible beneath my trousers.

"Can you stay hard," she continued through gritted teeth, "long enough to give me what that bastard couldn't?"

It had been a while, but my stamina had always been strong. "Yes," I told her, knowing that if I was wrong I might actually die.

The emotions on her face were obvious now: An unmet lust now fixated on a new target. A burning desire to get back at her boyfriend. Disbelief at what she was about to do, and a conviction to do it anyway.

"Good," she said, and we went to each other.

Her hands fumbled with my belt; mine just yanked her jeans and knickers down in one smooth motion, leaving them to fall to her ankles. She undid my trousers and my cock sprang forth from my boxers, stiff and raring to go. She stared at it. "Don't fail me," she whispered to my manhood, in a tone that let me know she'd rip it off if it did. She stepped out of her fallen jeans, allowed me to slide her shirt off over her head, and we kissed. Her lip gloss tasted of cherries, and she was hungry in her lust.

Her leg slipped around me and I felt the prickle of her neatly trimmed bush on my cock-head. They were ginger like the rest of her. Then warmth, and wetness, and bliss. We moaned into one another's mouths as I slid in to the hilt.

I knew in that first push that I was going to be fine. She felt good, sure. She felt amazing, with the lush tight sweetness that good pussy has, but even with my dry spell, I was doing fine. No five-pump failures here. Feeling my confidence rise, I broke the kiss, pushed her naked body to the wall, and began to thrust in earnest.

Rowan moaned in my ear as I drove myself into her, her pale tits and hard pink nipples pressing against my shirt. They weren't huge, but they sure as hell weren't tiny; they were perky as could be, and their shape was perfect. I loved them and told her so.

"Thanks," she said raggedly as my cock strove inside her. "I love this." Her hand fondled my balls - my dick was too busy pumping away into something much better than a hand could ever be. Don't get me wrong - I love a handjob, or a footjob or a thighjob come to that, but I'd been masturbating alone for months and pussy, warm and juicy pussy, was the thing my body needed.

And god, was I getting it. Rowan's hips gyrated, that supple athlete's body grinding against mine like dancers at a club, and her moans were music as we picked up the pace together. I steadied her with my hands on her ass and round her waist, enjoying the firm, springy muscle of her backside.

"Faster, but still hard," she commanded. "Keep those thrusts strong. Bit faster, come on, ooh, there..." I knew from her earlier shouts how she liked to be fucked, along with the penalty for falling short. So I did as the lady commanded.

My heart sped up as I put my back into it. Making quick strokes, but still firm and deep, is hard work. But that's what you have to do if you want to fuck a student-athlete - work hard. The payoff is worth it. I fucked Rowan with swift, strong, steady thrusts, giving her exactly what she craved, and her voice in my ears was like that of a proud coach: "Uh huh! More of that! Fuck me in all the ways he couldn't! Keep going baby, you're doing it so right!"

Her nails were leaving claw marks on my back and her breath was hot on my neck while I drew in great gulps of her scent with my every deep breath. She'd worn perfume for her fuck, but even under it, she smelled amazing.

Just like my thrusts, those breaths were deliberately steady. Hyperventilating is a good way to get over-excited, and I'm not that kind of guy. Even in this animal moment, I felt almost detached, observing the pace of my dick and my breathing from without. It was like a pleasurable trance.

And in that trance, I set my rhythm to hers. In my months of listening, in those countless moments of sweet torture where I heard her getting fucked through the wall, I had figured out the way she liked to be fucked. On the days when Rowan came, there would be a hard and steady beat, a thunk-thunk-thunk of her bed against the wall that sounded just so. And now my hips smacking against hers were playing that very same tune.

Her instructions were mostly gone now. My ears were full of praise. "Oh god, yes, like that. That's perfect, you're perfect, keep it up. You can do it."

And I heard, with a spike of pride, those little whimpers that meant Rowan was about to cum. They broke up her sentences, cut off her words, her exhortations to keep going, don't change anything, you're almost there. There was one last demand: "Flick my, ooh, flick my clit-" And my hand slid down to do it.

And she came.

"Yes!" Rowan cried in jubilation. "Yes, yes, oh my god yes! I'm there, baby, I'm there!"

And her hips swung and her tits bounced and her whole body writhed against me in the way I'd always dreamed it would, proving my fantasies right as I finished the job her former love couldn't. She kissed me passionately, with tongue, the second she recovered her breath. When her orgasm came, I slowed and she hugged me, clinging to my body as her long legs shook beneath her, and I was proud of myself.

When her lips left mine, she looked down and smiled. My cock still moved, but slowly now. I caught my breath as she wiped her sweaty brow and gazed at me with a flushed face full of gratitude. "Where do you want to finish?" she asked. "You can do it inside if you like, I'm on the pill. I just made Jacob wear rubber 'cause he cums too quick otherwise. Came. I'm not letting that fuckwit inside me again."

"You're not?" I asked her.

"Not when I have you. I'm trading up."

"Sure," I said with a smile. "And I think I will, thank you." And I christened our new relationship with a creampie.

It felt fantastic. Of course it did. Cumming always does, especially inside a hot, wet and tight little pussy. But it was the triumph, the fantasy fulfilled, the accomplishment that made it one of the hardest cums of my life.

We retreated to her room, after. I'd forgotten all about that stupid essay and wasn't about to go back to it now. Not when Rowan, apparently wanting to see if my stamina was a fluke, insisted on two more rounds. I'm proud to say I was no fluke. And that evening, after we showered and ate and watched a movie in her bed, my new fuckbuddy sent a text to her old one.

It read: "Turns out girls do cum when you fuck them right." Then, "I don't need you anymore. I've met a man who can go the distance."